


boys will be strange

by twiddlesprocket



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Graphic and Bitter Description of an Old Man's Nether Regions, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves, how does that work? whatre u asking me for idk, let me just drop my magnum opus in here right quick, shameless...but make it a coming of age about ian & mickey & ridiculous metaphors, twilight still exists in this au, warning - brief mentions of kash karib
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25884580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twiddlesprocket/pseuds/twiddlesprocket
Summary: Excerpts of two young men figuring each other out in a different kind of world.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	boys will be strange

**Author's Note:**

> this is the most beloved doc sitting in my files. i love werewolf/vampire aus and i love weird symbolism and confusing prose full of chunks☆..... ive only shown this little rascal to my most trusted friend but now that i have an acct here i think its only right to share it. totally written just for myself bc thats how i do everything!!!! anyways. the words here were written with BLOOD. heart blood. from my heart. enjoy!
> 
> dedicated to my peach ❤

* * *

Ian stands in the cold of a Chicago winter at around midnight for twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, one hand in his stiff jean pocket, the other pinching a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, before Mickey finally appears. He’s beyond dirty, his clothes are tattered, and his hair is sticking up on all sides like some sort of human porcupine, but Ian doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more beautiful sight in his measly fifteen years of life.

Mickey instantly catches the smile spreading its way across Ian’s lips because at once he’s stopping in his tracks and barking, “Wipe that dumbass look off your face, Gallagher, I didn’t come here for you. Do you even have it?”

Ian doesn’t wipe the look off - probably couldn’t have even if trying meant meeting the business end of Mickey’s knuckles - and instead replaces it with a smug grin that gives his face the illusion of being more freckled than it already is when he reaches into the chilly pocket of his coat and pulls out a plastic baggie with three, tantalizing joints zipped safely inside.

Mickey’s eyes zero in on the prize with a dark chuckle and a smirk that reveals just the barest inch of slightly-sharper-than-average canines. The sight moves him forward as if Ian had just pulled a switch or pushed a button; in an instant he’s crowding Ian’s space, grubby pale hands rubbing together almost devilishly. “What, you pay your big brother to slip you some in your little lunch pail?”

Despite the jeering, Ian shakes his head and opens the baggie, swatting Mickey’s hand away when he goes in too quickly. “Gave me the name and time of when I could find the guy,” he says, voice muffled over the cigarette until he sucks it dry. He flicks it into the dirt and crushes it with the heel of his old sneaker so he can free up a hand to slip the green zippo he stole from Carl’s under-the-bed lighter collection from his other jean pocket. “Apparently, he doesn’t have a set corner.”

He pulls one joint out of the baggie, all delicate like he’s handling a tiny flower, then carefully shoves the rest back into his coat. “Spent all week tracking him down to the alley behind the laundromat, you know, by Patsy’s,” Ian continues. He brings the joint up to his pinker than pink lips and cups a hand around the flame when he flicks the weed alight, gold illuminating his features in a way that gives the impression that Ian should be telling ghost stories to some group of math geeks underneath a blanket fort instead of standing outside in negative degree weather just to smoke pot with his second grade bully-turned secret lay.

“This shit guaranteed to get us high?” Mickey asks instead of focusing on how Ian’s fingers are lotion-soft as he passes the joint by it’s pinched end.

“It’s the only kind Lip smokes anymore,” Ian says by way of response, and that’s all Mickey needs to know because the whole “werewolves and vampires” bullshit has done no good for anyone and Lip’s that stupid sort of survival-ready pragmatist that would probably last the longest in a zombie apocalypse(full offense to that zombie prick Daniel Thornby in Algebra 2, who smells like actual shit), so of course he’d be the first to find the magical monster weed.

Mickey sucks on the sickly-sweet smelling joint like he’s still human and holds it in for as long as he can, only passing back when Ian taps his shoulder gently with the back of his long fingers.

The loopiness comes on almost instantaneously, and Mickey leans back with his face to the sky to breathe the smoke out of organs that haven’t been used since the night he got bitten. “Fuck,” he says, “feels like ages since I last got high.”

“Still surprised you even remember how to use your lungs,” Ian ribs, nothing but clothes and skin and bones as he puffs out shabby little rings of smoke that Mickey knows he’s only blowing to impress. Gay.

“How much that shit cost you?” is Mickey’s attempt at small talk just so he can shamelessly ogle Ian’s profile.

He fiddles the joint up and down like it’s a pencil, and he’s got to remember this question since it’ll be on the test tomorrow, because Ian’s just that young and just that big of a fucking nerd. “Shit. Everything I had.”

They share a heavy look, Mickey getting looser by the second, Ian just nursing the joint beside him, already feeling it and looking all sweet and demure with his bangs hanging into his eyes and his fingers keeping a safe hold on what’s left of their humanity all rolled into Ian’s entire paycheck at the Kash’n’Grab.

They puff and pass until the crescent moon overhead nearly brushes the tree tops in the direction of dawn, when the joint’s been reduced to a crumb and they’re too high to do anything but smile and laugh like two fags in love or some shit, like Mickey hasn't been aching for this all day, and it’s then Mickey shoves Ian’s hand down his pants, lets himself get bent over against one of the trees, and entertains the brief realization that he must be a pretty piss-poor liar.

* * *

On a day the sun is blocked by cloud cover, the Milkoviches appear in the convenience store like people back from the dead after spending a week as a clan on some bullshit vacation out of town shooting guns and getting drunk because Terry got out on bail and Iggy and Colin smiled and said, “Welcome home, Dad!” so Terry assumed that meant everyone was happy to see him.

The first thing Mandy does when she sees Ian is squeal like a happy little pig. Ian looks equally glad to see her, so he lets her drag him out of the chair behind the counter and wrap him in a tight, bouncy hug.

She fills Ian in on things that really aren’t his business, like how Iggy nearly overdosed on crack and Colin almost shot his foot off and Mickey was the most boring out of all of them because he stayed sober the whole time and also was the only one who shot every can clean through with his pistol. Iggy and Colin grin and share a high-five like fatal experiences are something to be celebrated and tail Mickey to the chip aisle.

He briefly stews over the Pringles about how if Terry hadn’t forced everyone to play Follow Mickey so he could invite his old ass group of drinking buddies to play beer pong and fuck cheap whores in the living room like some sort of ghetto lemon party sans gayness, Mickey would actually be enjoying himself by now, maybe snacking on Pringles at Kash’s expense while he and Ian banter back and forth like buddies, maybe getting fucked sloppy in the milk fridge or the back room - also at Kash’s expense.

The fucking sounds a lot better, half because Mickey doesn’t need to eat anymore to survive, and half because it’s been a whole week of nothing but sitting through his family cuss, burp, and piss on the side of the road and feeding off of shitty plasma reserves hidden in beer cans while everyone else slept(because, even in a world where bumping into a supernatural creature is literally an everyday thing, Terry Milkovich fucking hates them. And gay people. Figures.) Frankly, all the stress has Mickey practically itching to get laid.

Gallagher’s technically just a big dog in boy’s clothing, so when Mickey begrudgingly settles for sauntering back to the counter and making a show of breaking into Pringles he doesn’t intend to pay for when Kash reveals himself from the back room, he’s hoping Team Jacob can smell his desperation and make time for later on.

Mandy makes direct eye contact with Kash as she picks out a couple Slim Jims from the counter and orders her brothers to get her a Gatorade. Mickey faces him down in some convenience store version of a Mexican standoff while Iggy and Colin do their little sister’s bidding, munching away on junk that he’ll be throwing up later just to keep up the façade that he’s still alive, seeing as he’s already mastered the art of pretending to breathe.

He looks Kash up and down slowly, condescendingly, thoughts already pissy from earlier but turning sour as he wonders what the fuck Gallagher sees in this six foot chomo ducking his head and averting his eyes like a coward while a bunch of kids rob him with his unspoken permission, when he could just be fucking Mickey. It would be a hell of a lot easier and way less trouble; Ian’s still jailbait but only by a year or two, and Mickey’s baggage is just a short-fused piece of shit father who could only catch them together if they did something stupid like bang in the house with Terry still in it. Mickey’s obviously the better deal compared to a married prick with a wife and kids who’s stupid enough to fuck around despite cameras that see literally everything going on in each square inch of the store. Ian’s got enough morals for the three of them to spare, and Mickey can’t help but fume at the idea of Gallagher staying with Kash as a result of some sort of fucked up hero complex - as if believing Kash is a good person deep down is enough to make him one, and that him risking his whole life to take it up the ass for a little kid is some sick way of turning that belief into reality.

Seeing Kash cowed like a beaten puppy with just a look sparks something fiery in Mickey’s gut that gives him the will to shuffle lazily past Gallagher when he follows his siblings out of the store, demanding his redheaded target’s undivided attention while he sucks his fingers clean of cheese dust in faux-nonchalance. Mickey feels Kash’s eyes on him the whole time, boring especially deep holes when he breaks out an award-winning smile that’s all white teeth and rosy lips and he glances pointedly at Ian’s dick. As if Touch n' Go is gonna do fuck all.

When it’s sunset, Terry’s house party has dispersed and Terry himself is passed out in his own bed for once, Colin takes to polishing his Swiss army knife at the kitchen table to Chopin and Mandy and Iggy hork down microwave taquitos while calling each other shitheads over Call of Duty. Mickey takes a shower in cold water, doesn’t bother with boxers when tugging up his one size too big pants, stuffs one of his travel-size tube of Astroglide in his deep pockets and slinks out of the house like a cat through a cracked door. He lures a twitchy nobody under the L with the promise of a cheap deal, slams his head against a stone beam hard enough to crack so Mickey can bleed him dry, then catches his real prey on the closing shift.

After finding him taking inventory of the milk with Kash nowhere to be seen, Mickey grabs Gallagher’s wrist to guide him out of force of habit, ego swelling to the size of Texas when freckleface feels skin instead of thin fabric and shoots him a look with saucer-wide eyes and a stupid gay smile and shoves him out of the fridge into the back room, locking the door behind them. Once alone, Ian flips Mickey around and they both undress. Mickey practically burns on contact as Ian re-attaches himself to Mickey’s back and sneaks his hand down a hip and over the back of a thigh, unnaturally high body temperature courtesy of werewolf genes spiking with the tangible heat of lust and hunger and setting Mickey's stark white skin ablaze inside and out.

* * *

Ian takes Mickey to a DIY ROTC obstacle course he’s been crafting himself since he first joined the program and learned the ropes, one day in August. He’s got some of what he needs for training scattered around in the form of tire sprints, silver dumbbells of various sizes, a makeshift mud trap and what looks like the basics for some jumping obstacles, but the place is still pretty empty, ghosts of what had been still haunting the yawning spaces between the low-hanging beams overhead and the abandoned warehouse walls, graffitied over on every last inch of white paneling.

“Pretty shabby,” Mickey says of the area in general, taking care to stick close to the darkness. Ian’s at least generous enough to take him out when the shadows are at their longest.

“It’s just the bare bones,” Ian replies, walking a line through the middle of the warehouse, bathing in the light of the morning with his pale arms exposed in his striking blue tee, “but it gets the job done.”

His bangs have receded to the middle of his forehead, now, swept off to the side and back in a confused little pomp; they keep getting shorter every time he and Mickey meet up to fuck or smoke, and as much as Mickey likes them long he’s wondering when Ian will just bite the bullet and chop it all off. Training doesn't start up again for a while, though, so maybe he's just tired of buzzing it every ten days. Werewolf hair grows pretty fast, among other things; he’s filling out like the color inside the line activities you find torn out of the children’s books when you visit the kiddie corner of the doctor’s office, all hard muscle and sinewy limbs and wide palms, and the angsty preteen bangs allude to a more star-spangled youth that’s no longer as characteristic of Ian as it used to be. A puppy with long legs and big paws; the promise of a broad-shouldered stud destined to do a lot of big shit when he’s all grown up.

Ian's sweet seventeen with the sharpening jaw to show for it. His birthday was three months ago, give or take a week; and after spending the whole day with his pack of Gallaghers eating cake and singing Kum ba yah and drinking beers that will never get him drunk, he’d stolen Mickey away at a quarter to eleven PM and brought him to a horror movie at the downtown theater with most of his paycheck from the Kash’n’Grab crumpled in the back of his pocket. It was a terrible film and also a terribly gay gesture that Mickey didn’t let him forget until they’d climbed in through Mickey’s bedroom window, locked the door so Terry didn’t bust in, catch them, and beat them to death, and smoked the second magic monster joint to the tips of their fingers, after which Mickey pinned Ian down on the bed and bounced bareback on his dick until dawn. “Happy birthday to me,” is what Ian had laughed when the sun started filtering in, smiling that dreamy post-fuck smile that’s made of bliss and butterflies and fairytales and in response Mickey had thrown a shoe at Ian’s head and shoved him half-naked out through the window with an angrily whispered “get out of my house you fucking mutt”.

Seventeen. Mickey had asked why Ian still aged if he was one of the cryptids now, and Ian had hit him with this big spiel he himself had to suffer through under Frank’s overwhelming insistence, that the only time he’ll age is if he doesn’t take advantage of his shapeshifting abilities. “A lot of werewolves choose not to do it so they can age with family and friends and loved ones,” he'd told Mickey one cloudy day, when he had invited Mickey inside his house and snuck him up to the roof to smoke. It's all they could do together these days, but neither of them ever complained. “It’s the only option we have to be...relatively normal.”

“So you’re like the dudes from Twilight, then?"

Ian had given him a lopsided smile. "I knew you were gonna say that. I mean, I guess. Give or take some pretty glaring inaccuracies...like how khaki skirts and Volvos are in any way sexy. Taylor Lautner's an actual werewolf, though."

“What about the full moon? Does it make you do any crazy shit?”

“Does it make _you_?”

“It makes me hungry as fuck,” Mickey said, honestly. “If I don’t feed I get the shakes, then migraines, then my stomach hurts, like it’s eating itself. If I ignore it, I end up blacking out. And when I go out into the moonlight, my skin does this crazy thing where you can see my veins and they’re all black and shit. It’s weird. Sucks.”

Ian had regarded Mickey for a moment before pointing his nose up to the sky. “I just get this weird urge to piss on things.” Mickey had punched him and nearly sent him off the roof.

“This a date, Gallagher?” Mickey asks when Ian reaches the end of the warehouse and pulls a faded box of Life and some sodas from underneath a cracked blue tarp in the empty stomach of a platform, built from stacked cement and wooden pallets and beams.

“You want it to be?” Ian jeers, joining Mickey in the shade. They have a seat on the cool ground. “I’ve been working on this place for weeks. Wanted you to see it," he adds, quietly.

Mickey observes Ian as he carefully removes the top of the box and takes out each piece of the game, taking care to not to lose the pink and blue people even though he drops some cards and they scatter like leaves. On the inside of the cardboard box, at the bottom, Mickey can see Ian's name written in messy black sharpie. Toddler scrawl.

“Hey, uh,” he says eloquently, “hit me up when the sun’s not out and I’ll help you work on this shithole.”

Ian takes a whole three seconds to look up from his hands and roam Mickey’s face with his droopy eyes before his face splits in that off-kilter Ian smile and says, “Sure.”

Mickey stares down at Ian’s hands and cracks open a purple Fanta while Ian sets up the game.

* * *

When the whole imprinting thing first comes up, it’s during the time Ian’s going through a pause with that new old guy he’s been screwing.

Ian and Uncle Grandpa haven’t fucked for a long time; Mickey only knows because before, Ian smelled like this fancy cologne you might get a whiff of in a tobacco flower candle at Walgreens, or the lobby of a casino, or in some rich gay dude’s penthouse suite - all headiness and musk and business suits with lapels and finely pressed blazers. Sometimes Mickey would smell Polo in Ian’s hair and taste dark chocolate in his mouth and he would get angry and cuss out that old fag for being Ian’s Kash Number Two while he jerks himself off in the shower.

However, during Ian’s little dry spell, when they’re chest-to-back and face-to-neck, all Mickey can smell in his hair is the clean scent of the dandruff shampoo Ian shares with his four siblings. On his skin, flowery soap that must be Fiona’s. Behind his teeth, cigarettes and root beer and sugary breakfast cereal, and it's one thousand times more delicious than douchey expensive caramels or smoked salmon dinners or bacon and cheese hors d’oeuvres; and on those becoming-less-rare occasions, when Ian’s got Mickey belly-up and he’s panting rhythmically in Mickey’s ear, Ian not smelling or tasting like Ned but _Ian_ has Mickey’s head spinning like it does when he gets that first scent of fresh blood - but instead of his throat, that familiar stone settles like a hot coal in his gut and has him unraveling with a strained “oh, fuck”.

 _Like a fucking girl_ , Mickey thinks when Ian catches him off guard during one of their midnight walks, crowding him into a dark alleyway littered with trash and stains and broken beer bottles, deciding that he’s going pick Mickey up to take him this time while crooning sweet things into Mickey’s ear; and with all the sour-smelling garbage around that’s hitting him hard enough to almost make the fucking kind of a turn off, Mickey can’t help but find it kind of romantic.

(Another downside to being a modern monster in shady Southside Chicago besides being the type that will slowly roast to death if exposed to direct sunlight for an extended period of time: getting Tower of Terror'ed next to a dumpster surrounded by tweakers and thugs will probably be about as good as it gets.)

They’ve finished fucking in the swanky top floor penthouse apartment or whatever Ned rented for Ian to stay at when things at home get too hectic, and Mickey makes a blatantly not-casual comment that starts the ball rolling.

“What does your sugar daddy have to say about you bringing other guys over to fuck?” Mickey says, tracing the crystal rim of a whiskey bottle as he lingers by the drink caddy, naked as the day he was born. Ian just shrugs, sucking on some red licorice he found in the cupboards of the kitchen.

“Not guys,” Ian admits easily. “Just you.”

Mickey knows it doesn’t beat anymore, but that phantom feeling of his heart skipping one fills him with a sort of nervous energy. He glances down at the creamy beige carpeting underfoot before ducking his head to take a swig, only looking back up at Ian when he crosses the threshold between the kitchen and the soft carpeting of the living area. “Well, then what’s he got to say about me?”

Ian throws a cocky smirk his way because he’s a bastard and has already seen what Mickey’s jealousy can do to those on the more dangerous receiving end of it. “You worried he’s gonna send goons after you for almost breaking his nose?”

Mickey scoffs, standing a little more confidently when he downs the next swill. “Unless he’s packing a cross and some holy water, I’ve got scarier things to worry about.”

“Like?” Ian asks, reaching the end of the room. He swings his licorice around like a tiny lasso and glances out from the huge living room window covering wall to wall, surveying the better parts of Chicago that two grubby Southside kids will only be able to experience with spit-shined glass and empty pockets wedged between them.

“Like some old fairy trying to set me up in a fucking nasty ass cross-species, intergenerational sandwich, maybe,” Mickey says with that matter-of-fact tone, joining Ian at the window in a sort of reckless abandon to mask his deeply buried fear of heights and giving the unsuspecting world below a show of his junk like a raunchy middle finger instead.

“Yeah, well, after that whole smash and dash you pulled, I’m sure you won’t need to worry about that,” Ian says, smile crooked to one side and playful, and sucks on the licorice a little harder as Mickey takes a bigger drink of the whiskey. "Plus, calling an _actual_ fairy a fairy isn't as much of an insult as you think it is."

“Says you.”

“He’s a pretty forgiving person, Mickey. Not that’d you’d know.”

“How righteous of him.”

Their silences are always companionable, even if Mickey’s having an internal crisis over where he stands with Ian and this Super Nice Dr. Ned while they relax stark naked, a few inches between them, against a window made of glass that probably isn’t that thick and would also probably shatter like nothing if they fucked hard enough against it. He shifts from foot to foot, can’t get the image of Ian putting his tongue anywhere near some grandpa with a twink fetish and thousands of dollars burning a hole in his pocket, right next to the fancy on-the-go lube and shimmery foil condoms. Can’t stop picturing Ian’s head falling back as he sticks his dick into an old asshole’s ass hole and gets off in it, Ian’s lips wrapped around this fifty-something’s wrinkly cock, sucking like he’s sucking on that red licorice right now. It fills Mickey with bubbly anger that sends sparks of whatever it is that keeps him just over the fine line between animate and six feet under through his nerves and into his canines, making his teeth buzz with an ache for the flesh of Ned’s neck. He sighs more out of habit than a need for air and runs his tongue over increasingly tender gums.

Ian looks over at him. Mickey feels his eyes rather than seeing them; knows that even if Ian was in the other room he could tell Ian’s looking his way just by that tingle at the nape of his neck, the tickle in the pit of his gut. There’s something palpable here, between them, inside of them, and the threat of this Ned guy getting in the way of that is much scarier than being caught underneath the victim of a should-have-been deal gone awry with teeth like scalding needles through Mickey’s jugular, all alone and crying out for help in an empty tunnel.

“You imprint on him?” Mickey asks, voice cracking just the tiniest bit on the word imprint. He doesn’t dare look at Ian, just in case he says “yes”, because Mickey’s selfish.

“No,” Ian says after a pause, almost thoughtfully, and if Mickey could breathe he’s sure he’d sigh in relief and then he’d really look like a bitch.

“Anyone in your family do it?”

“Fiona.”

“With who?”

“This guy, Jimmy. Or maybe his name was Steve.” Mickey looks at him this time. For a moment Ian’s staring out into the night, eyes flashing, and then he’s looking directly at Mickey and Mickey feels a hollow ache in his chest bloom like a flower trying to push through his ribs. “We never did figure it out.”

Mickey lets Ian hold him with his eyes. “Have you ever?”

Ian shakes his head. Twirls the licorice around on his tongue. “Fiona told me it happens under intense emotional duress, or some shit like that. Read it from a creepy book she found under Frank’s bed.”

“Didn’t know Frank could read.”

Ian rolls his eyes, smirks, reaches out one long, muscled arm to shove Mickey back and the other to toss his licorice somewhere over his shoulder; and for a split second, when Mickey’s back hits the pane, he feels a shot of adrenaline course up and down his spine in panic over the cops finding his naked body crumpling in the top of shiny red Ferrari, probably impaled through the heart(with his luck, of course), chalk white outline quartering him in and the click of cameras trying to put together the puzzle of this random naked boy on the wrong side of town.

He smiles through this anxiousness, toothy, defiant, waiting; and like a moth to a flame Ian closes the distance between them, pressing Mickey’s back firmly against the cool glass with his hands, completely careless as to whether or not they might die, and Mickey could punch him for being such a Gallagher.

And then Ian’s looking him over like something important, something special, and Mickey’s mind falls five hundred feet and splatters on the sidewalk, drawing a heart with viscera and brain matter. It’s a look grown women describe in their over-dramatic romance novels where the girls dress in hoodies and converse and are described as ‘different’ and condescend mainstream hip hop like listening to indie bands instead of Yung Fetty Whatever The Fuck makes them so much better than the made-up blonde who paints her nails pink and got her license at sixteen. It’s fairytale inside fairytale - mythical inception, if you will - and Mickey can’t bring himself to condemn the butterfly feelings stirring in his stomach when Ian snakes his head back and forth and leans in with the heaviness of his glances up and down Mickey’s stocky, ghost-white body.

Mickey stares into Ian’s face and arcs his back, pushing his chest against him, growing steadily harder at the warmth and sturdiness of Ian’s eighteen year old body chiseled by ROTC and weight-lifting in his spare time at the obstacle course they’re building together.

“You wanna fuck against this window?” Ian asks breathily, bluntly, in the way only Ian Gallagher could.

“I don’t really want my corpse to be found naked, dead twice over, and obviously super fucking gay in a parking lot. Call that intense emotional duress.”

“Our corpses,” Ian hums, like talking about plummeting to his doom with his dick still in Mickey’s ass is the most romantic thing in the world - and in a strange, morbid, ironically fitting way, it kind of is. 'As long as I’m caught dead with you'. God. So gay. He leans in to gently press his freckled cheek to Mickey’s temple and his rock-hard cock to Mickey’s navel.

Mickey lolls his head the other way to stop the nuzzling and shoves Ian back a couple steps. “Fuck off.”

Ian chuckles and reaches for Mickey’s arms and Mickey lets Ian bring him in close and slot their mouths together and lay them both down on the outrageously butter-soft, fuzzy white circle rug in the middle of the floor between the two square loveseats, using strong arms to move the glass and steel coffee table out of the way.

With the reassurance that Ian’s not bound by any means to the ritzy wrinkled fuckstick who rented out a whole apartment as a present to the boy with the army brat buzzcut and broadening shoulders and wide palms(and maybe a brief thought that not everything is like Twilight, if Ian keeps coming back to him like this), Mickey drops his head back onto the carpet with his eyes closed and lets his legs fall open so Ian can lick a long stripe up to his throat, sliding in with only the slightest resistance, sealing a wet kiss around where Mickey’s pulse would be if he were still alive.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> this was more from mickeys pov so sorry if u expected in depth thoughts on both ends >_< i default to the mouse. thanks for consuming my brain child :)


End file.
